


little spoon

by shestepsintotheriver



Series: non-human Jaskier [8]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Was rated Mature before now Explicit, Witcher Stamina (The Witcher), of indeterminate species, they're soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28957317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shestepsintotheriver/pseuds/shestepsintotheriver
Summary: Jaskier’s lovers tend to fall into two camps: they either want to kill him at some point, or he gets bored of them and walks away. Geralt would really rather keep Jaskier, even if it means ignoring… well, everything.But Jaskier says, “You sure I can’t give you a hand?”, and smiles this ridiculously hopeful smile, and... Geralt never did have much sense when it comes to sex.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: non-human Jaskier [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785946
Comments: 25
Kudos: 507





	little spoon

**Author's Note:**

> like i say in the tags, this may deserve to be rated Explicit rather than Mature, so be advised of that.  
> mentioned pairings: Yen + Triss, Lambert + Aiden
> 
> cw:  
> \- sex

Geralt reluctantly tears his gaze away from Jaskier and looks at Yennefer. “It’s not ready yet.” His eyes go back to Jaskier. The bard has been performing a while, and a few drops of sweat have made their way from his hairline and all the way down his pretty neck to get lost in his chest hair. If Geralt breathes deeply, he can smell him, salt and musk and amber. A little lavender, too, because Jaskier will never pass up the chance to play the hussy. 

Geralt shifts in his seat.

“Oh?” Yennefer says, in a tone of voice that makes it clear that he’s not going to like how this conversation is about to go. “Pray tell, why not? Did you not specifically tell me that you’d have it done by today? Was there an unforeseen issue?”

“No. But I only _killed_ the cockatrice this morning, I haven’t butchered it properly yet. You’ll get the belly, as promised. Tomorrow.”

Yennefer tilts her head at him. It’s less fond and more predatory than you might otherwise expect from someone who actually likes Geralt. Most days, that is. Right now, he’s testing her patience. She licks her teeth and goes, “Have you considered that perhaps you’d have it done already if you didn’t spend most of your time relentlessly buggering your bard?”

Geralt glances at Jaskier. Again. “That’s not—”

“Granted, he is quite pretty, and I must admit that he looks particularly fetching wearing _your_ shirt under his doublet,” she continues, looking at Jaskier with a contemplative air. “He really is quite broad, isn’t he? Not nearly as delicate as he seems. _Sturdy_.” She eyes Geralt. “And yet, not even bowlegged. Curious. Or maybe not.”

Geralt _hmm_ s. Yen knows what he likes. The salacious smile now spreading across her lips tell him that she’s figured it exactly what goes on between him and Jaskier—as she always seems to figure out everything that Geralt isn’t saying, even without reading his mind.

Which is that most days Geralt isn’t the one relentlessly buggering anyone.

*

Geralt does not originally set out to become a notch on Jaskier’s bedpost, but he’s really not too bothered about it happening. (Especially because he doesn’t just become a notch, but rather damages the structural integrity of the metaphorical bedpost so badly that it has to be thrown out.)

The thing is, Geralt is slow to start _and_ slow to finish when it comes to sex. It’s on par for a Witcher. If you ask him, it’s not entirely fair that a creature with such a high libido needs to also spend so much time taking care of it, especially if he has to come in the way that offers the most relief; he can come dry quite a few times before the big finish. The fact that some humans need barely more than a minute to get off is astounding to him. He wonders if they get discounts at brothels.

It’s usually easier with lovers. Both because they aren’t bothered by his presence, and because they care about actually getting him there, again and again and again. Yennefer had known exactly how to play him, how to get him there the fastest. (She’d also known how to make it last, but with Geralt that’s not as big an accomplishment as it is with other lovers.)

And now, Jaskier knows how to fuck him, too.

It starts like this:

“Sirens,” the smuggler says. “A whole nest of them! Laying siege to the cove. They’re ruining our livelihood, they are. You have to take care of it, Sir Witcher—”

Geralt very carefully doesn’t say anything on the topic of “ruined livelihood”. It’s not his business, and besides, they’re not smuggling anything worse than sugar and spirits. He takes the contract, leaving Jaskier to gleefully charm money from the tavern patrons. Taking on a whole nest of Sirens is hazardous, and since the smugglers are eager to get back to work, Geralt barely even had to haggle for a good price. He gets his silver sword and a couple of potions and off he goes.

It should take several hours. But it’s only been one hour when Geralt comes back.

Fucking smugglers. Should get their eyes checked (and their stories straight). There’d been only one Siren—an exceptionally clever one, but still just the one. Geralt would’ve been fine with half the amount of potions he downed, but _no, Sir Witcher, there’re definitely more of them, or we wouldn’t have been outwitted_. Idiots had probably been led around by their dicks, that’s why she’d had such an easy time picking them off. Geralt is drenched, his favourite pants have torn at the seam, and he’s still got potions coursing through his blood, rendering his eyes black and his skin corpse-pale. At least he got paid (full price, even).

Jaskier laughs at him all the way up to their room.

“Bathing with your clothes on, Geralt? Now start from the beginning,” he says, reaching for a paper and quill. “A whole nest—”

“Wasn’t a nest. Was just the one.”

A beat. “Well, that’s disappointing. I’m going to put down a whole nest anyway.”

“Hmm.” _As you like._

Jaskier prattles on as Geralt strips down. They’re not shy around each other, not after so many years of bathing, sleeping, travelling, and walking in on each other. Another thing that comes with that lack of shyness is the freedom to also look and be looked at. Geralt knows Jaskier likes what he sees, always has, ever since that day in Posada when he walked up to Geralt without a single thought in his head except to get railed. It hadn’t worked, but Geralt can respect the sheer, stupid bravado of it. (And it’s nice to be wanted sometimes. Especially by someone as pretty as Jaskier.)

So he strips and Jaskier looks and talks, and talks, and talks, all the while peppering in endearments that are half-mocking, half-sincere, and his smell has deepened with lust. If Geralt wasn’t hopped up on potions it might not have gotten to him, but his skin is extra sensitive and he’s restless with left-over energy, needing an outlet, and since he won’t be fighting anyone… Jaskier’s teasing and implied invitation for a tumble is getting to him. 

“You look radiant, darling,” Jaskier simpers, grinning at where Geralt is trying to get out of his shirt without tearing it. “A noble, elegant—seriously, do you need help with that?”

Geralt pouts at the fabric stuck over his face. “… maybe.”

“I don’t hear a _please_.”

“ _Jaskier_.”

Jaskier sighs. “Close enough. Come here, you big baby—”

There is absolutely no reason for Jaskier to stand so close while helping, but that’s Jaskier for you. Melitele knows he likes to play with fire; pressing himself against a black-eyed, twitchy Witcher for a laugh is just his style. Even—or especially—if it makes getting Geralt’s shirt off even more difficult.

Jaskier wiggles against him; pauses when he feels the bulge of Geralt’s budding erection, as much caused by adrenaline as by Jaskier’s presence. Geralt can’t see his face through the fabric, but he can _hear_ his smirk. “Aw, is someone getting all excited to see me?”

“I’d be more excited if you didn’t talk to my cock like it was its own person.”

“You’re no fun, Geralt, did anyone ever tell you that?” He sniffs. “And here I was, trying to be nice and seduce you.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

“Considering that _you’re_ now the one pressing against _me,_ I’d say it’s going mighty well indeed.”

Fuck it, but he’s right; Geralt forces himself to pull back. Not because he wants to; he’s wanted and wondered about Jaskier for years at this point, it’s just that it’s a thoroughly bad idea. Jaskier’s lovers tend to fall into two camps: they either want to kill him at some point, or he gets bored of them and walks away. Geralt would really rather keep Jaskier, even if it means ignoring… well, everything.

But Jaskier says, “You sure I can’t give you a hand?”, and smiles this ridiculously hopeful smile, and… Geralt never did have much sense when it comes to sex. He _hmm_ s and Jaskier grins, and that’s how he ends up bent over the shabby vanity, facing the grimy mirror above it. Jaskier pushes Geralt’s pants down around his thighs, crooning filth in his ear as he feels Geralt up, avoiding his cock and letting it plump up steadily. His hands grip and fondle, smooth over his belly, scratch through the hair on his thighs, squeeze at his hip.

Geralt can’t look at himself like this; heated embarrassment fills him when he happens to glance at his reflection. Eyes wide, lips parted, and he’s pushing back against Jaskier like a lush, eager for his hands and mouth and voice. With every backwards grind against Jaskier, his blood gets hotter. Jaskier is hard, and so quickly, too, his desire so plain.

Still, he warns: “This won’t be quick.”

“I was so hoping you’d say that,” Jaskier replies and gets to work.

He spends so long not touching Geralt’s cock that when he finally does, Geralt can’t help but moan—and moan again when Jaskier praises him, calls him _good_ , tells him he’s _gorgeous_ , says he’s _been dreaming about, have you been dreaming about me, too? Look at you, darling, so sweet for me—_

He holds Geralt’s cock between two fingers and strokes it slowly, almost disinterestedly, like he’s just trying to get a feel for how big he is. Geralt grows slick with precum, easing the glide, and Jaskier takes him in hand and sets a steady, easy rhythm, giving Geralt something to fuck into. He presses biting kisses into Geralt’s shoulders, gets distracted and humps against Geralt’s ass, groans when Geralt curves his back and offers himself up for Jaskier’s pleasure.

“Oh, you magnificent bastard,” he breathes. “What do you want? My fingers? My mouth? Just this?” He nips at Geralt’s lobe, keeps it between his teeth as he speeds up his hand, curves his fingers around the head and _twists,_ then flicks his thumb on the downstroke.

Geralt groans; the vanity groans where he’s gripping it. Hips stuttering, arms straining to hold him up, he comes for the first time. His cock weeps thinly, but doesn’t sputter, only kicks and jerks in Jaskier’s hand. And Jaskier just _keeps going_ , keeps pulling more from him, making him shudder through it until he’s hardened even more than before.

And then they go to bed.

That’s not to say that Geralt just lies there. No, he’s very much an active participant, being the one to turn around and push Jaskier towards the bed, and the one to initiate their first kiss. It’s awkward, their noses bumping and a little too much teeth, but neither care much. Jaskier tastes fresh and tart, like he’s been eating berries or drinking sweetened cider, and Geralt can’t stop touching him, doesn’t want to stop for breath.

His hand itch to touch skin, to comb through the thick hair on Jaskier’s chest. It’s a miracle that their clothes survive the encounter—and an even greater miracle that Geralt’s pants doesn’t fall apart entirely, not that he cares much at the moment. The _feel_ of Jaskier, the muscle in his arm, the softness of his belly, the dimples above his ass. Geralt wants to bathe in his scent, wants to leave himself on Jaskier for days, something that won’t wash out easily.

The structural integrity of the bed, which really wasn’t that great to begin with, whines under their assault. Like Yen will later note, Jaskier is _sturdy._ Strong thighs, thick arms, and a very fluid way of moving his hips that he seems to have learned _purely_ to drive Geralt insane. With Geralt on his back and Jaskier spreading his thighs—how freeing, how _simple and wonderful_ it is to be laid bare for him, to offer his body to someone who knows and cares for him—the bed creaks and groans and threatens collapse. Not that they are listening.

Between kisses, Jaskier says, “I have oil, let me just—oh, darling—let me,” and stumbles out, hurrying back with the oil without pretending any sort of nonchalance. His cock bobs between his legs, flushed and hard, and Geralt _wants_ , doesn’t care for anything except getting Jaskier inside him, _hurry up._

But he lets Jaskier play and tease, lets him open him with questing fingers, slow and awful and wonderous. Geralt kisses whichever part of him he can reach, his cheek, his mouth, his shoulder. When Jaskier moves down to suckle at his nipples, Geralt arches his back and holds him closer by the hair.

“I’m not a girl,” he admonishes breathlessly, not at all displeased, just a little overwhelmed by the way Jaskier pushes at his chest like a breast, the way he sucks and lick and pulls at his nipple.

“Oh, I know,” Jaskier laughs, “but these are the prettiest tits, so lovely, can’t get enough of them.” Geralt cries out and squirms and comes dry, again, when Jaskier pushes against that little bump inside him.

Barely letting Geralt catch his breath, Jaskier pushes in, steady and slow and oh-so-wonderful. Geralt plants his feet and pushes into it, pulling Jaskier in with his hands on his shoulders, the small of his back, his ass, anything to get him inside him. The noises Jaskier makes; he must have been holding back before now, smothering his moans and breathless praise, but now they break free, make their home in Geralt’s neck, against his lips.

“How do you want it?” Jaskier whispers, words getting lost in kisses and the unstoppable roll of his hips, his cock filling Geralt just right, just _perfect_. “Slow? Fast? Do you want me to make love to you, or to fuck you? Anything, sweetheart, I’ll do anything for you—”

Another day, Geralt will ask for Jaskier to make love to him, but not this day. He braces his against the headboard and lets Jaskier pull his leg up, almost folding in half; his head falls back and his mind clears as Jaskier ruts into him.

Whatever inhuman blood Jaskier has—he doesn’t actually know what it is himself, having been found and adopted by human parents—it allows him to keep going for a long time, but even Jaskier’s superior stamina quails in the face of Witcher mutations. When he gets close, he wraps himself around Geralt, their bellies and chests touching, his face hidden in Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt’s cock gets trapped between them, helplessly rubbing against them both.

Geralt tenses his thighs, pulls Jaskier even closer, and Jaskier comes with an awed groan and a sharp stutter of his hips. The smell of his satisfaction—Geralt buries his face in Jaskier hair, inhales and inhales and inhales. And Jaskier just keeps going, even though he’s done, even though it’s got to hurt, thrusting until he’s almost completely soft and slipping out.

“Give me a moment,” he pants, “just a moment, and I’ll take care of you.”

It’s more than a moment, but that’s alright.

When cum slipping out of him and sticking between his cheeks and thighs, Geralt lets Jaskier kiss his way down his chest and belly, still slow and slightly uncoordinated, but sweet and attentive all the same. He takes Geralt in his mouth, sucks at the head of his cock like it’s a delicacy he’s been waiting all his life to taste, traces the big vein and kisses every spot of skin. His mouth was made to be filled by Geralt.

When Geralt finally, finally comes at last, comes in a way that’ll put him out for a while, he spills in Jaskier’s mouth, drips down his lips and chin, and he pulls Jaskier up to lick his own taste from his skin. He’s always liked kissing, likes using his tongue on his lovers, and Jaskier is more than happy to let him, kissing back slow and deep.

They fall asleep with their legs entwined, Jaskier cuddled up close to Geralt’s back and his hand proprietarily holding onto Geralt’s chest, tensing into a grope as he twitches with sleep. In his arms, Geralt feels content and cared for, the black receding from his eyes at last.

And that’s how it begins.

*

Three weeks later, with Yennefer faux-glaring at him from across the table, there’s barely been a night that Jaskier hasn’t crawled into bed with Geralt. It hasn’t changed anything between them, at least not for the worse. If anything, they’re even more comfortable with each other, though it’s hard to imagine how that can be possible. They’ve already seen the best and worst of each other, have cared for and loved each other for years already.

Yennefer, despite her tough act, is obviously happy for him. Still, she wouldn’t be Yennefer if she didn’t threaten bodily harm and say, “Stop bending over for your bard and get me the damn belly, Geralt, some of us are actually on a schedule here. Ciri sends her regards and I’ll see you both at Beltayne, yes?”

“Yes. Tell Ciri hello, too.” He tilts his head back to let her kiss him goodbye, a peck on the lips that they’ve never grown out of exchanging after calling it quits for the last and final time. Before she can swan off, he adds, “Tell Triss and her thighs hello, too.”

Yen grins wolfishly and salutes him, neither admitting or denying anything. Not that she needs to. She has washed, but Geralt can smell Triss on her still, on her hands and her jaw where she’s missed a spot with the soap.

On her way out, she kisses Jaskier goodbye, too, obviously startling the bard.

“I feel like I just got blessed,” Jaskier confesses as he slips into Geralt’s lap, sprawling like a cat. Would it be wrong for Geralt to bury his face in his chest hair? Probably not. But a tad tacky, what with being in the middle of a tavern—and a rather high-end one at that. Travelling with Jaskier affords a lot more luxuries than he’s ever had before.

(His brothers make fun of him for it, but given that Eskel tends to end up as a slightly confused and doted-upon darling of succubi and Lambert’s lover Aiden is as prissy as Jaskier, never mind that he’s a Witcher, they don’t get to comment. Coën, however, gets to despair at them all. As does Vesemir, but that’s more or less his general state. The younger Wolves have a theory that he takes pleasure in being put-upon. Ciri says that’s stupid, but she’s his favourite and doesn’t get the Neutral Moue of Disappointment.)

“Hmm,” Geralt hums and noses at Jaskier’s cheek. He gets a kiss for his troubles.

Which turns into another. And another.

Until the aging tavern owner reminds them that this isn’t _that kind_ of establishment, and kindly either take it somewhere else or keep it chaste. Jaskier pouts but takes his hands out of Geralt’s shirt, and Geralt re-adjusts his position on his lap. “Young love,” she chuckles and kindly ignores their kiss-stung lips and dopey expressions.

They haven’t said any such thing to each other—haven’t made any declarations. At least not in the romantic sense. Jaskier tells Geralt that he loves him often, and Geralt has said it back, in his own way, less wordy but true all the same.

But Geralt knows that the next time they say it, they’ll mean it the way the tavern owner says.

He hides a smile in Jaskier’s hair and lets his lips form the words.


End file.
